Murder on the Tor: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 3)

by Frances Evesham

  So, that was how the little girl came by the beads. “Did Jemima Bakewell know about the pregnancy?”

  The vet shrugged. “I don’t know; we never mentioned it. Catriona went away for six months, to have the baby. The story was, she was working for an architect―some of the courses included practical placements, so the other students believed her. She thought everything would be all right. There was no need for her to die.”

  “No need...” Libby stopped in mid-sentence. Slowly, the pieces of the jigsaw fell into place in her mind. “I can think of a very good reason why someone thought Catriona needed to die. And there’s someone else in danger, right now.”

  Jemima

  Max’s Jaguar squealed to a halt outside the vet’s surgery. Libby jumped inside, pulling on her jacket. Adrenalin pumped through her body.

  Max’s hands were light on the wheel. “Good of you to call. Mind telling me why you need to get to Miss Bakewell in such a hurry?”

  Libby was silent, leaning forward, straining to see the lanes in the dark. “Can’t you go any faster?”

  “We’re there.” She was out of the car and running up the path before Max had pulled on the handbrake. He was shouting. “Come back, you idiot.”

  She pounded the door with her right hand, her left thumb hard on the bell. No one came. Libby jabbed the letter box open, shouting. “Jemima. Miss Blackwell. Let me in.”

  Slowly, the door inched open, jamming on the chain. The school teacher’s eyes peered round the door. Her mouth trembled. “You can’t come in.”

  “Open the door, Jemima.” The teacher shook her head. “You can’t…” she whispered. “I’m busy.”

  Libby raised her voice. “The police are on their way. They’ll be here in a moment.”

  The door slammed shut. Max said, “Stay here.” To a back drop of wailing sirens and flashing lights, he took off at a run, trampled over flowerbeds, cursed as he crashed into a rubbish bin, leaped over a side gate, and disappeared round the back of the house.

  “Stay where you are, Mrs F.” Joe Ramshore jumped from the first police car as it squealed to a halt, lights flashing, and followed his father. A young detective constable ran round the other side of the house.

  With a rattle, the front door flew open. Libby pushed past a terrified Jemima Bakewell and ran through the building, emerging at the back, just in time to see Max in the garden, rolling on the grass with someone that aimed ineffectual punches at his face, as Joe arrived. In seconds, the man was in handcuffs.

  Max brushed mud from his trousers. “Well, Professor, don’t you think it’s time to give in? You’re really too old for this sort of thing.”

  ***

  Mandy will be furious to have missed the fun. Libby made tea, once more adding a dash of whisky to Miss Bakewell’s cup. After a moment’s thought, she added a bigger dash to her own. The school teacher fussed in cupboards, looking for chocolate hobnobs, as though Libby and Max were ordinary visitors invited into her home.

  Max was stern. “Time to explain yourself, Miss Bakewell. And let’s drop all the ancient ‘curse of the beads’ flim-flam.”

  Libby giggled, elation making her foolish. Flim-flam? Max shot her a warning glance and she subsided on a chair. “Yes, you’d better come clean. We know what’s been going on.”

  Miss Bakewell picked at a thread hanging from a tweed skirt. “I suppose the story has to come out, now.” The woman’s self-possession was astonishing. The professor had been close behind as she opened the door, a kitchen knife in his hand. She’d been in terrible danger, yet she was quite calm. Libby shuddered. “Is there anyone who’ll come and look after you?”

  Miss Bakewell shrugged. “I’m used to being alone.”

  “You’ve been in love with the professor all these years, haven’t you?”

  The elderly spinster let out a long sigh. “We had so much in common, Malcolm and I. I knew him first, at University. My mistake was introducing him to Catriona. He fell in love with her, and made me give the necklace back to him. She wanted it, you see. Malcolm said he’d tell the authorities I stole them, if I didn’t hand them back.”

  “What really happened at the party? We’ve heard so many versions. It’s time you told the whole truth.”

  “It was the sixties, so there was drink everywhere, and drugs. Catriona was drunk and high and Malcolm danced with me.” Her face lit up at the memory, then her lips quivered, “He did it to make Catriona jealous.”

  She gulped her tea and held out the cup. “I think I could do with a refill.” As Libby obliged, she went on, “I’m afraid the details are a bit blurry. I’d had too much to drink, and the Professor and I...” An ugly blush disfigured the teacher’s face. “He took me upstairs. Catriona burst in. She was screeching like a crazy woman. It was nothing to do with the necklace. They had a fight, right there, in the bedroom, and Catriona screamed at him, saying it was his fault she’d had to give away her baby, and she’d tell everyone he was the father.”

  A sudden flash of pure spite lit Miss Bakewell’s face. “You can imagine what that did to the professor. He was on the way to a great career at the University. He would be ruined, if people found out. He went crazy, and ran at her. She backed away, against the window. It was open. You see, I told you, she fell out of the window.”

  Max broke in, “Except, she didn’t fall, did she? The professor pushed her.”

  Miss Bakewell’s hands fluttered round her neck, as though feeling the invisible beads. “I don’t know, not for sure. We stuck together, after it happened. The professor was the cleverest of us all. He was going to do great things, and we were his friends. He couldn’t have the truth about Catriona’s baby getting out. It would ruin any chance of employment at the University, in those days. He told us Catriona’s fall was an accident.”

  Libby said, “But you all knew. I think you’re still lying. You guessed the truth about Catriona’s absence that summer, you found out about the baby, and you told Malcolm Perivale. You thought he’d break up with her and come back to you, but you were wrong. You underestimated the cold-blooded ambition of the man. He wouldn’t let anything get in the way of his career, and he couldn’t trust Catriona to keep it quiet. Who knows, she might even have talked about getting the baby back. He couldn’t take the chance, so he got rid of Catriona.” Libby shuddered. “With Catriona out of the way, and the child safely adopted, the professor got away without a stain on his character.”

  “We made a pact never to meet. I never married.” Miss Bakewell’s voice was bleak.

  Max folded his arms. “The professor deserves to pay for what he did, although I’m not sure the police could find enough evidence to convict him of murder. But, why start killing people now, after so long?”

  Libby said, “It was the photographic exhibition. The professor killed John to stop the exhibition, knowing there would be photos of Catriona.”

  Miss Bakewell’s head wagged. “That’s right. I suppose he lured John up to the top of the Tor, with some story about the old days. He’s strong, the professor, and John was so small and slight. All Malcolm had to do was trip John up, get the plastic bag over his head and sit on him until he died. But then the exhibition went ahead, anyway. That Chesterton Wendlebury wouldn’t waste the money his company spent on setting it up. He said it was a tribute.” Her eyes flashed. “I went to see the photographs, not even thinking about Catriona, but there she was. It brought it all back. I think I went a little crazy.”

  “This evening, when I opened the door, Malcolm was there. I thought he’d come back to me, at last.”

  Libby said, “But he came to kill you.”

  ***

  Back in the car, Libby shivered. “She’s a little crazy, isn’t she?”

  “Pretty much. But harmless, I think. Anyway, the professor was cleaning up his mess, and she was next on the list. I don’t think she’s a danger to anyone.”

  Libby thought about the child; the grandchild of foolish Catriona and the cold, calculating professo
r. What an ancestry. “Do you think Katy will ever talk properly?”

  Max grinned, a little sheepishly. “I told her father I’d take Bear over to see her, now and then. Well, quite often, really. Sam reckons she’s already taken the first steps to recovery from whatever they call it―elective mutism, I believe. And, if she’s got the beads, she won’t keep running away to look for them on the Tor.”

  “The Tor. All that nonsense about the beads bringing bad luck. It’s just another story to add to all the others.” Libby laughed. “Funny, how easy it is to start believing in the supernatural, when all the time there was an explanation for everything that happened.”

  Max drew to a halt. “Libby,” he said. “I know you’re angry with me about Trevor. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything. I wanted to be sure.” His arm slid round her shoulders. “I should have trusted you.”

  “Yes, you should.” Libby longed to lean her head on his shoulder. His arm was so comforting. She took a long breath. “I think I can forgive you, Max, but not quite yet. You see, I trusted Trevor, for all those years, but he was making a fool of me. I have to sort things out in my own mind. Did he love me? Was he a wicked man, or just a silly, weak one who controlled me because he couldn’t control himself? I can’t decide, and it’s driving me crazy. I need the full story.”

  Shark

  The sun was already beating down on Exham when Libby woke next morning; perfect for a run on the beach with Shipley. Libby heard his frenzied bark as she approached the house. Marina took longer than usual to open the door, and at first sight, she looked flustered. Her hair stuck out at wild angles and the top of her frilly blouse drooped, unfastened. “You’d better come in,” she murmured, blushing and fiddling with the floppy bow.

  “I came to take Shipley for a run...”

  In the doorway of the living room, Chesterton Wendlebury beamed. “My dear lady. Have you come to help Marina prepare for her book club?” His voice boomed.

  Libby shook her head. “Dog walking.”

  “Ah. Do you have the redoubtable Bear with you?”

  “He’s in the car.” Finding the man here was a surprise, but Libby wasn’t going to miss the opportunity. “Mr Wendlebury.” She took a slow breath. “I believe you might have known my husband.”

  “Oh? What makes you think that?” His voice purred.

  “Trevor―that’s my husband―brought us all here for a holiday, a few years ago. He had business in the area, and spent almost every day driving off to meetings with clients.” Wendlebury inclined his head in a vague gesture that could mean either yes or no. Libby ploughed on. “After that holiday, my husband changed. I now know that, around that time, he became involved in shady business deals.”

  “Ah.” Wendlebury crossed one leg over the other. “I recognise the influence of Max Ramshore on your information. I’ve often wondered about Mr Ramshore. A banker, taking early retirement, making frequent trips abroad.” He smiled, showing large, tombstone teeth. Like a shark. “Oh, yes, Mrs Forest, you’re not the only one to see through that man’s cover. I’ve made it my business to check up on him. Along with many financial wizards, he was snapped up by our―er―” he coughed, in a parody of discretion. “Shall we say, by our civil service?”

  He broke off as Marina arrived with a tray of coffee. “Marina, Mrs Forest and I were talking over old times. I expect, like most people in town, you thought she was new to the area?”

  “I’d been here once before―on holiday―but I’d forgotten.”

  Marina gave an easy laugh. “Plenty of summer visitors come back here to retire. Not that you’ve been taking it easy. You’re always busy with something.” She adjusted the scarves at her neck, settling back onto her pale sofa.

  “Did you know my husband, Marina?”

  Marina glanced at Wendlebury, and away. “We met once or twice. He came here a few times, without you and the children. On business, of course.”

  Libby’s next question was drowned by a crash that echoed through the house and brought Marina to her feet. “Shipley,” she shouted. “That dog. What mess has he made, now?”

  She disappeared, to deal with the springer spaniel’s latest misdeeds, and Libby, increasingly uncomfortable, abandoned any idea of dog-walking. “I’d better be going. I―er―promised I’d…” She had no idea what she was saying.

  “Of course.” Wendlebury stood, courteous as ever, to usher her out. “Don’t hesitate to ask if you want to know any more about Mr Forest. We were business acquaintances. Nothing more, of course, so I doubt I can help very much, but I do understand the need to talk about one’s dear departed. My wife, of course, died many years ago...” He exposed the shark’s teeth again. “Goodbye, dear lady, until we meet again.”

  ***

  Libby leaned on Max’s doorbell. Come on. Wake up. Her eyes were gritty, from a night tossing and turning, puzzling over the connection between Wendlebury and Trevor. Flashes of memory from that first visit to Exham left her astonished she could have been so stupid. The children were small, then, and money was tight, but Trevor hadn’t wanted Libby to work. “We need you at home to look after us,” he insisted, and Libby, wanting to be a good wife for the man she loved, took his words as signs of affection. She’d stayed at home, worrying about her husband. He spent hours alone in his study, and when he came out he was distracted and off-hand.

  Libby decided he was working too hard and suggested a holiday. “The English seaside. Buckets and spades for the kids, fish and chips for dinner.”

  Trevor grinned and the lines of worry faded. “One of my clients, Pritchards, has a head office near Exham on Sea. Let’s combine business and pleasure for a week.” That was how they came to visit Exham. It was all her fault. How could she have forgotten?

  Maybe she’d deliberately wiped it from her memory, because after that week, Trevor grew more distant, more angry and unkind, and more critical of his wife. He spent long hours in the office or on business trips, his hair turned grey and he drank heavily, but Libby never dared speak of it. She watched, helpless, from the sidelines as her loving husband gradually disappeared, to be replaced by a cold, angry stranger.

  If only she’d stood up to Trevor, tried to find out what was going on, maybe she could have made a difference. She shuddered. What if she’d discovered his criminal dealings? What could a wife do―shop him to the police? Or, could she have put a stop to it all? She’d never know, but one thing was certain. She’d let no one make a fool of her again. That’s why she was here, on Max’s doorstep, at a crazy early hour; to discover the truth.

  The door opened. “Whatever time do you think this is?” Max’s hair stood in spikes on top of his head. In dressing gown and bare feet, rubbing fingers over early-morning beard stubble, he squinted at Libby. “This had better be an emergency.”

  She pushed past. “I want an explanation from you, Max Ramshore.”

  “Can I make coffee, first?”

  “Answers first, then coffee.”

  “That serious?” He led the way to the study, his private sanctum. Part of Libby registered the gesture. Maybe she’d get some honesty, for once.

  She pushed a pile of documents at him and waited, foot tapping, taut with anxiety, as he fumbled in his desk for reading glasses before scanning the first page. “We’ve already talked about these.” He sounded perfectly reasonable. “We know your husband had a portfolio of houses, bought with money from criminal activities.” He shot a glance at Libby. “You know, Trevor was just the admin man.” Libby waved a hand, impatient. This was old news.

  She grabbed the pile of papers, tossed aside a handful and pointed at Ali’s letter from her father. “Five years. My daughter had to wait five years from the date Trevor gave her the house, before touching it. It didn’t even notice the date when I read this; I was too shocked.” She jabbed her finger at the letter. “Five years, Max. I finally realised. Five years after Trevor gave the properties away, he was dead. Do you see what that means?”

  Max frowne
d. “Frankly, no.”

  Libby could hardly get her tongue round the words. “What if Trevor’s death wasn’t an accident? He had a sudden heart attack. Not uncommon, I know, in a middle aged man who drank and smoked and took no exercise, so how hard did the pathologist look for another cause of death? How did Trevor really die?”

  Max leaned forward and took Libby’s hands. “You said it yourself. Your husband was a middle-aged man under a huge amount of stress. Why would you imagine he died from anything but a heart attack?”

  Libby snatched her hands away and stared at Max, wondering what she was really seeing. Her voice was hard. “Trevor had links to Exham on Sea. We came here when the children were young, and things changed. Trevor became a different person. He’d been kind, and loving, when we first married.” Tears slid down her cheeks. “I know he loved me, once. Over the years, he became more controlling―telling me I was stupid, stopping me seeing friends. It was gradual, and I didn’t realise it was happening until he’d turned me into some sort of door mat. But I can see, now, that person wasn’t the real Trevor. Maybe he was just weak. He got into bad company, couldn’t find the way out of the mess he was in, and the result was terrible stress.” She could hardly speak, for tears. “If only he’d told me the truth, we could have sorted it all out.”

  “Even if it meant prison?”

  Libby wiped the tears away, with the back of her hand. “Even then. He should have trusted me. I could have helped, somehow.” Max walked to the window and back. Libby let the silence grow, but as each second ticked past, the knot in her chest tightened until every breath hurt and she couldn’t stand it any longer. She whispered. “Did―did you know about Trevor? Tell me, Max. Stop pretending.” When he turned, his face told the truth. “You did. You knew what my husband was up to. You knew about the money, and the properties, from the start.”